


Special Cookies

by oopswrongcookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Drug Use, Epic Bromance, Friendship, No Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopswrongcookie/pseuds/oopswrongcookie





	Special Cookies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [27dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/gifts).



John shrugged out of his coat and scarf. 221b Baker Street smelled wonderful, highly unusual given Sherlock’s habits of late. He rounded the corner of the kitchen. “Mrs. Hudson’s been baking today?” He snapped a chocolate cookie, still oven warm, from the plate on the table and opened the refrigerator in search of milk. He found the bottle behind the experiment of Thai leftovers from last week.

“No, she’s not been baking.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his microscope. He still wore his robe and slippers; his black curls a damp tousled mop.

 _At least he’s showering now,_ John thought. The cookie in his mouth wobbled and he nearly dropped it while sniffing at the glasses he drew from the cupboard. Deciding they were clean enough, he filled both cups and set one in front of his sardonic friend.

“What are we moping about this week?” John plunked down in the chair across from Sherlock and stuffed a cookie in his mouth.

“You sound like Mycroft.” Sherlock groaned at whatever he was looking at on the slide.

“Your brother cares about you too, you know.” John grabbed another cookie. They were delicious, just enough sweet and salt, melt in the mouth, chocolaty richness. “Mrs. Hudson does make wonderful cookies.”

“Mrs. Hudson didn’t bake them.” Sherlock’s eyes lifted away from the lens. Their clear blue fixated on John’s face, watchful.

“They’re just out of the oven, Sherlock.” John bristled; he knew what the look Sherlock gave him meant. _Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring._

John’s gaze swept around the kitchen.

Fresh milk.

Open sugar bag on the counter.

Cookie sheet in the sink basin.

“I didn’t know you baked, Sherlock.” John grabbed another cookie from the plate and dunked it in his glass of milk before popping it, whole, into his mouth.

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed and peered into the lens of the microscope once again. His lips drew up in a wry smile as he removed one slide ad replaced it with another.

“What are you looking at?” John inquired, reaching for his fourth –maybe sixth, he’d lost count – cookie.

“The cellular construction of the cannabis.”

“That’s a little mundane for you, isn’t it?” John asked and stopped. He inspected the cookie in his hand, bite taken out and already swallowed. A queasy pang struck him. “Sherlock, _what_ did you put in the cookies?”

He listed the ingredients with his usual indifference. “1 cup brown sugar, ½ cup shortening, ¼ cup grated unsweetened chocolate, 1 egg, ½ cup buttermilk, ¼ teaspoon baking soda, ½ teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 1 ½ cups flour, and 2 ground buds marijuana.”

The cookie in John’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “Wait…2 ground buds of what?” He gaped at Sherlock.

“Marijuana,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Did you just drug me?” John’s voice rose an octave, the queasy feeling in his stomach grabbing hold and he gagged.

“Oh, don’t be such a ninny, John. I calculated it precisely so that there will be no detectable THC for a standard urine screening.”

“Detectable?” John chuckled. “Sherlock, you bastard, you drugged me.” The pang of queasy turned into woozy.

“Consider it fair play for your damnable bachelor party.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“That was a wonderful case,” John sighed. He scrubbed his face with his hand, his fingers itching into the slight stubble on his jawline – he’d missed a spot with the razor.

John’s head cleared for a moment and he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock. “What if Mary finds out?” He cracked a smile, snickering.

“It was her recipe, John.” Sherlock snatched a cookie from the plate and bit into it, savoring.


End file.
